Goodbye To Flesh
by Elven Victory
Summary: When Draco Malfoy discovers a strange book in his library and reads from it, he finds himself at the start of an adventure involving mind swapping, time travelling and his worst enemy. HGDM. PostHBP
1. The Beginning

**Goodbye To Flesh**

Disclaimer – this story is based on situations created by J.K Rowling or the corresponding owners. I own nothing except my ideas.

Summary: When Draco Malfoy discovers a strange book in his library and reads from it, he finds himself at the start of an adventure involving mind swapping, time travelling and his worst enemy. HG/DM. Post-HBP.

Goodbye To Flesh by Elven Victory

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Chapter One – The Beginning

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It was morning.

The sun had not yet risen, though the sky was filled with the telltale grey of the approaching dawn; dark fog, like a snake, wrapped itself around the sleeping world, filling every crack and coiling around every tree. It pressed itself against windows and the walls of houses; it choked all breathing things. It blocked out the light.

Draco Malfoy stepped out of the Study's fireplace at Malfoy Manor and brushed the soot off his robes with what can only be described as haste. He swayed slightly as he untied his blackened shoes and left them, side by side, on the green rug he was standing on. His eyes scanned briefly over the untouched paperwork on his father's old wooden desk.

The Grandfather clock in the corridor outside gave an anxious tick. As he closed the Study door, the Slytherin looked up at the numbered face expectantly. It was in shadow, but Draco could see the black, ornamental hands becoming clearer by the minute. They read twenty-minutes-past four as if scolding the new Death Eater for his lateness.

Draco glared at the clock as if it were a grimy muggle object. He turned on his heel and strode off down the portrait-lined corridor, his bare, sore feet stinging as it made contact with the thick carpet. He wanted to be as far away from his father's study as possible. His Dark Mark -- the symbol of his service to the Dark Lord -- had stopped burning when he had answered to its call almost nine hours ago, and now he wished he had ignored it.

The air was cold and stale as the young Death Eater walked down the hall; he hugged his robe tighter around his body for extra warmth. The kitchen fires had probably been lit now, but upstairs the night air still wafted about the house, its escape impossible until the windows were opened.

Where was he to go? They'd come after him any minute. An early stroll in the grounds seemed undesirable, as his feet were sore and aching. His mother was still asleep at the far end of the Manor, so an early breakfast was out of the question. As for sleeping… he was tired, but he couldn't possibly sleep. His walk began to slacken… now he was trudging along the hallway with weary limbs.

Behind him, he could now hear hurried -- but gentle -- footsteps following his own, but he knew who they belonged to. He didn't look back, but continued to walk, his pace quickening very slightly. A bitter expression crossed his face.

"Draco!" The footsteps had quickened; they were no longer soft, but hard against the carpet, as if running on the bare, wooden floor. The young Death Eater didn't look back. He walked faster. "Draco!"

They caught up with him; their footsteps fell in step with his own. Draco continued to stare straight ahead, as if trying with all his mind power to ignore his companion's presence.

"You are a failure, Draco," said the newcomer. "Next time, I will not be there to save your neck. If I am there I will simply refuse to assist you. I do not believe you can complete this new mission the Dark Lord has kindly set you; I should have given him this news myself."

For the first time, the young Mister Malfoy looked up into the cold, bleak eyes of Severus Snape. The former Potion's Master sneered at him, and continued to speak.

"I see -- you feel it is fruitless to attempt to contradict me? Finally you see some sense. You are extremely fortunate that I was there to help you, otherwise--"

"I don't need your help," Draco practically spat, his eyes dancing with an unknowable light. He turned his gaze back to the end of the corridor. "I could have avoided the Dark Lord's anger if it hadn't been for you. I would have done quite well on my own."

A look of seething coldness crossed Snape's face. "Is this how you show your gratitude towards me? Well, I think little of it. If I had not been there, you would have been punished very severely. The single dose of the Cruciatus Curse you received would have meant nothing. Perhaps you would not even be here to tell the tale now. The Dark Lord will not forget this meeting: you virtually ran from the circle this morning--"

"I didn't."

"Do not dare interrupt me again, boy." His voice was icy, and low. "You virtually ran from the gathering this morning, and I had to give the Dark Lord my own reasons for your early departure. Do you expect Him to be so lenient next time? I think not." And then, as if an afterthought, he asked: "I believe you realise the point in the mission you have been set?"

"Yes," replied Draco. "Why wouldn't I? He gave clear enough instructions."

"Clear enough for any wizard of normal intelligence," remarked Snape, sneering again. "You are an exception to that rule. Tell me, Draco, do you remember what the Dark Lord asked of you?"

"To take P--"

Severus gave a low hiss. "You stupid boy! Say nothing here! If someone is listening…" His gaze travelled over various spots in the ceiling high above them. "As you were fellow schoolmates with Potter, this task should certainly be a simple one: however… if you are unsuccessful, it will be your second failure, and the Dark Lord will think you completely worthless. Therefore, I suggest you do not make a complete mess of it as you did with your first mission. Do you understand?"

"Why wouldn't I understand? I heard it perfectly well the first time."

Snape's new jolt of anger seemed to be radiating off him in large waves. "Very well," he spat. "Why your father thought you valuable is beyond my comprehension. Do you realise exactly who you are talking to? I have no patience with you if you speak to your superiors in that way."

"Why? I didn't say I needed your help. I certainly didn't ask for it. I was given instructions that were clear and simple -- I don't need you to run through them with me again, time after time. I am intelligent enough to do things on my own, thank you very much."

"I could say otherwise, but if that if how to feel, I believe there is no need to pursue any conversation. You leave me no choice but to leave you to your own demise." And with a swish of his black cloak, he darted away back down the corridor.

Nonetheless, Draco was not moved or hurt by his former Professor's words at all: his mind was swarming with other thoughts as he continued to walk. Weak light was streaming from the gaps in the curtains now; the sun was rising. The stars would have vanished into a world of grey fog and overcast skies.

Almost idly he turned down a flight of wide, carpeted stairs and swept through a short corridor. He walked up another staircase and trudged along the new hallway that greeted him. And then, scratching his forearm, he entered the Library, sniffing as he breathed in the thick, musty air.

The Library was one of the largest rooms in the house; tall, wooden bookcases lined the walls and bulky rugs covered a good part of the floor. Beams of light filtered through the gaps in the deep green, floor-length curtains, illuminating swirling clouds of dust and the thick, leather-bound books on the shelves. In the centre of the room was a mahogany table and chair.

Draco, having been greeted by this sight many times before, strode over to the chair and sat upon its velvet -- though slightly stained -- lining. He felt forgotten tiredness overwhelm him as he rested. He turned his gaze over different bookcases in the room and smirked to himself: the Library was a pleasant familiarity that didn't involve the Dark Lord.

How long he sat there, leaning back into the soft cushion, a look of pure contempt on his young face, he did not know. Perhaps he even fell asleep for a short while, for it only seemed a few minutes after his arrival that he heard house-elves bustling past the door: surely this was a sign of the household's awakening.

While comfortable, homely silence grew on him, Draco began to muse in his own thoughts: he began to ponder over what Snape had said to him earlier. He could still hear the man's harsh, icy voice ringing in his ears: "_You are a failure… Why your father thought you valuable is beyond my comprehension…_"

As if in answer, the Slytherin clapped his left hand upon the table in anger. "I'm not a failure!" He cried, shattering the silence like glass and causing the clouds of dust to swirl faster, as if out of surprise. "You don't know a thing about me! You don't know what I'm like at all! No-one ever will, especially not _you_, you silly little man…"

He raised himself from the chair and began pacing around the table, his eyes scanning over the books on the nearest bookshelf. Part of him hoped he would find some hidden comfort in the pages of an old family diary, or his former _Standard Book of Spells, Grade 2 _he had left in this very room five years ago. An odd expression -- almost happiness -- crossed his face as he stared at the titles: _A Book of Curses_, _Casting the Unforgivable Curses_, _The Spells of Time_, _Tracing The Caster_, _Au Revoir à la Chair_, _The History of Dark Mag _--

"_Au Revoir à la Chair_?" Malfoy asked allowed, his contentment suddenly being swept away. He had never heard of that title before. He reached his arm out and pulled the article off the shelf; it was a large, dark green, leather-bound book with the title in fancy gold lettering. He didn't recognise it, and usually he knew all the books on this particular shelf.

With the weighty volume in his arms, he sauntered back over to the chair and sat down, placing the newfound book on the table. He turned a few of its dusty pages over until he found slanted, handwritten text:

_Pensez à qui vous êtes;_

_Pensez à ce qui vous voudriez que soit._

_Et dites alors_

_au revoir à la chair_

Underneath this text was the complicated diagram of a sphere surrounded by circles. There was nothing horrifying about it, though it made Draco's skin suddenly crawl. He turned to another page and read yet another script, though this time the style of the text was ghostly, almost haunting:

_To Those Who Seek What They Cannot Find:_

_Confide in Another's Mind._

_A Month of Stolen Years,_

_An Eternity of Taken Fears_

_Makes the Everlasting Time._

_Think of who you are, _

_And what you'd like to be._

_And Then Say_

_Goodbye To Flesh._

If the text on the previous page had made the young Death Eater wary, he was even warier now. "Goodbye to flesh?" he said aloud, shaking his head roughly as if in answer to his own question. "What's that supposed to mean?"

He turned the leaf over again, his interest in the book increasing. But what was this? The pages after the introduction poem held no secrets except dried, yellowed parchment; they were completely blank. The words he had read a few seconds ago came back to mind: "_Think of who you are…_"

Suddenly, to the young man's astonishment, words began to write themselves on the blank page; they were printed in the same, slanting handwriting as the earlier text: "_Think of what you'd like to be… resentful… cautious… intelligent… wealthy… famous… loyal… powerful… brave… cunning… ambitious… energetic… studious…_"

Draco stared at the open book before him as if continued to write by itself. He felt a strange sensation in his head, almost as if it were being searched. "Intelligent? Brave? What do you mean?" he asked the parchment, a look of horror on his tired face. As replying, the writing changed:

"_Intelligent? Brave? What do you mean?_" In its curved, haunting text it copied down his very words, but it didn't stop there: writing continued to appear, though it wasn't from his own mouth: "_Studious… brave… intelligent… cautious…_"

The former Slytherin went to close the book, shocked, but he stopped dead. The writing on the page had ceased, though about half way down the parchment a drawing was being sketched. It was drawing the eyes: eyes he had looked into often enough in the past, though he couldn't think who they belonged to. Then came the nose, and the mouth, and the eyebrows… there was no denying who it was now…

As the finishing touches were put to the girl's hair, Draco looked into the face of Hermione Granger. It was as if they were back at school again; as if she was standing next to Potter, books in her arms, glaring at him with mutual hatred. Even though she was a drawing on parchment, the platinum-head closed the book with a snap as if she would jump out at him. How dare the portrait of a mudblood come anywhere near Malfoy Manor?

"Filthy little…" he cursed under his breath. But as he slid the book across the table, away from him, and leant back in his chair, he couldn't ignore the searching feeling in his head. Was this an invention of the Dark Lord's, perhaps to spy on him or the House? He didn't know, but he felt, if possible, uneasier than he had felt in all in his life.

The clock near the Study began striking for all it was worth, signalling the arrival of Eleven o'clock. Realising that he had probably slept through breakfast, Draco rose from his sitting position, strode towards the door, and headed down to the Dining Room for Afternoon Tea.

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"Draco, darling, where have you been?"

The Slytherin boy's platinum head shot up; his mother was looking at him intently, as if waiting for an answer. She leaned forwards and handed him a small plate of scones, her eyes not moving from her son's face.

"I've been in the Library all morning, mother," he replied at length, taking the plate almost greedily and setting it down on the table. Narcissa, satisfied by his answer, turned back to her drink of tea and said no more.

Draco had made it down two flights of stairs to the Dining Hall for lunch; his mother had given him the type of greeting that was very rare in the Malfoy household: clearly, she had been missing him. But now, as they sat there in silence, she didn't seem to notice the pained look on her son's face.

Narcissa took a sip of tea and helped herself to another slice of cake. As she swallowed the first mouthful in silence, the stillness of the room seemed to grow on her. She turned back to Draco.

"Are you quite well?" she asked. Her son stared at her, as if he couldn't comprehend what she was asking him. His eyes seemed to be growing large and over-bright. "You seem very quiet this afternoon."

"I'm very well, moth--" Suddenly his entire body went limp; he brought his chair down with him as he fell to the carpeted floor, motionless, as his mother scrambled up from her seat and sped towards him like a dart.

But though she shook him, he did not awaken.

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**Author's Note:** Do you like it? I'd like constructive criticism in reviews, if you don't mind. I'm not too sure about some of it, though hopefully the next chapter will be preferable. Please review!


	2. At The Burrow

**Goodbye To Flesh**

_By Elven Victory_

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Chapter Two – At The Burrow

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"Wake up! He'll be here soon!"

Hermione Granger opened her eyes slowly, only to be met with the sight of Ginny Weasley's back. She seemed to be hurrying around the half-lightened room in excited haste; carrying sheets to and fro and shooting glances at her companion every so often. Ron, her brother, was following her around, passing her objects or simply tidying up after her.

"Morning!" he called to his newly awakened comrade, grinning. He came over to her and sat on the end of the bed, half-watching his sister. "We're just tidying up for Harry, you know, in case he needs somewhere to go to talk to us, alone. Mum said it would be a good idea to make him feel extra-comfortable this summer."

Hermione let out an uneasy chuckle. "I suppose so…"

"Fred and George wanted to throw a party, but mum jumped down their throats," grinned Ron. "She said a party was the last thing Harry needed."

Hermione smiled in reply. "I suppose they found a loophole, did they?" She asked, earning a nod from her companion. "What time is it, anyway?"

"Half past seven," Ginny said vaguely, as if it was the least important thing in the world. She ran a hand over her un-brushed hair.

Hermione yawned. "Well, Harry said he wouldn't be here until lunchtime, Ginny. Is it daylight?" she added, with a glance towards the unopened curtains.

"Yes." The redhead girl then promptly strode over to the window and pulled back the brown curtains roughly; it didn't make a lot of difference to the light in the room, due to the amount of fog lying low.

The two went away downstairs not long after this, leaving Hermione to get washed and dressed. She saw no one else until she entered the kitchen, where most of the Weasleys--and Fleur--were seated around the table, eating. Ron gestured for her to sit next to him cheerily.

"Good morning, Hermione!" chirped Mrs Weasley brightly, handing the girl a plate of bacon, which she accepted. Bill, who had been discharged from St. Mungo's several days earlier, waved to her from his seat next to Fleur.

"Good morning, Mrs Weasley."

"Hello!" greeted Fred and George in union; they had had granted themselves a day away from the joke shop. Hermione smiled at them in reply.

"Guess who'll be coming with Harry today?" asked Ron, stuffing half a bread roll into his mouth. Molly gave her son a look of dissatisfaction; she leaned forwards and offered various people the breadbasket. "Lupin, Tonks and Mad-Eye! You remember Mad-Eye, don't you?"

Ginny shot her head in her brother's direction. "Ron! They might have wanted it to be a surprise. Have you thought that?" Her recipient merely shrugged.

"Has Harry written to you over the summer, at all?" asked Hermione. Ron shook his head.

"I s'pose he's been busy," he replied flatly. "After all, I guess he's been planning stuff, hasn't he? I mean, with Dumbledore and everything…"

A sudden, heavy silence seemed to grow over the table. Ginny took another slice of bacon and began eating silently. Molly twisted in her chair to look at the Weasley Clock.

"Ah, that's good: Arthur got to work all right." She turned back to the faces staring at her. "He wanted to see Harry and the others arrive, but he can't miss a day of work, unlike some."

Fred and George sniggered. "Fancy someone missing work! Wouldn't that be terrible?"

"Dad's been really busy lately," said Ginny, looking at Hermione, who had taken a sip of pumpkin juice. "The Minister for Magic keeps trying to interview him about Harry. His popularity's shot right up."

"He might even have another promotion," grinned Ron. His companion had no time to reply, however, for at that minute an owl swooped into the kitchen, landing in a ruffled heap in Fleur's plate. Molly untangled what appeared to be a copy of the _Daily Prophet_ from its legs.

"Oh!" she exclaimed. Her eyes darted furiously down the page. "They can't possibly… no, no… it would be absurd…"

"Mrs Weasley?" asked Hermione anxiously, seeing the startled look on her hostess's face. "Is anything wrong?"

"They're debating over the future of the school," said the woman gravely, her eyes beginning to shine. She wiped them with the back of her hand. "The Ministry for Magic thinks it would be wiser to close it, and perhaps re-build it elsewhere."

Ron began choking on his pumpkin juice. "Why? There's nothing wrong with the school. It's the teachers that's the problem."

"They can't possibly rebuild it!" gasped his muggle-born companion. "That would be completely pointless! What about the teachers, and all the students? What about education?"

"Ve 'ad no probzems like zeeze at my old school," said Fleur, finishing up the last of her breakfast. "I vill do ze cleaning now, Molly?"

Mrs Weasley waved a hand absently. "Yes, yes, go ahead…"

"I vill see you all very soon," smiled Fleur, rising from the chair. She hugged Bill and exited the kitchen.

Ginny shook her head. "I don't believe this. Mum, can't Dad to anything to help?"

"There's only so much he can do, dear. Remember that he doesn't have much of a say over what the school does or doesn't do… I'll have to ask him. Hermione, dear, are you all right?"

Hermione had given the _Daily Prophet_ to Ron and was now massaging her temples, looking pained. At first she didn't seem to hear the question directed at her. "Yes, yes, I'm fine… what are you saying?"

"We were talking about dad," said Ginny.

"No," replied the muggle-born, looking at the table in front of her. "I--I… you said something else… you were speaking in poetry… _Au Revoir à la Chair_?" Everyone stared at her.

"Dear?" asked Molly reassuringly. "Are you sure you're feeling all right? You look pale. It isn't the bacon, is it?" She gave a rather nasty glare at the said food.

Hermione only smiled in reply.

The rest of the morning passed uneventfully; the fog cleared up overtime, and Ron decided that they should go into the garden and play Quidditch. The muggle-born's headache had subsided, though she had a rather odd feeling in her mind: almost as if it was being _searched_.

"Can I be Seeker?" asked Ginny, as they stood out in the garden together. "There aren't many of us… I don't think we should stick to the game rules too much…"

"Who needs rules?" grinned Ron. "Hey, Hermione! Are you playing?"

The witch looked at him from across the other end of the garden; the feeling in her head was driving her insane.

"Actually, I think I'll just watch you, if you don't mind…" she replied, but mentally kicking herself straight after she had said it. '_I think I'll watch you? Hermione, you fool, what a stupid thing to say!_'

Ron, however, had turned back to his 'team' and was deeply engrossed in the game. "OK--Ginny, you can be Seeker, I'll be Captain as well as Keeper…"

Hermione watched them from her seated position on the lawn, feeling partly annoyed, partly humiliated, and partly… searched. What was wrong with her? She took to watching Ron as he kicked off into the air, and sped round in circles. Usually she would be interested in him most of all, but now… now she felt that nothing would interest her ever again.

Suddenly an odd thing happened, as she sat there: it seemed as if everything went completely silent, as if the world had gone dead. There was no shouting from the Weasleys anymore; no birds sang in the morning air. And then… then she heard it: a voice so clear it sounded as if the speaker was sitting directly behind her, as if they were talking into her ear: she could hear knives and forks; she could smell scones and tea… "I've been in the Library all morning, mother."

"Oh!" exclaimed the muggle-born, looking around wildly. She knew that voice from somewhere, but whom did it belong to? "Who said that? Who's there?"

"Hermione, are you all right?" Ron's voice interrupted her own; he was hovering a few feet above her on his broomstick, a confused look on his face. The garden, the sounds, the smells… they were back again. She had left the tea and strangers alone.

"I'm fine, really," replied the girl, forcing a smile. "It was nothing…."

"Are you sure you don't want to play? We're having fun. You look lonely over here, and we need more players on the team. If you're afraid of falling of a broomstick, I can teach you how to ride one."

At Ron's last sentence, Hermione's cheeks began to burn furiously: she could feel a blush creeping up her neck. However, the redhead boy seemed untroubled by what he had said.

"No, no…" the muggle-born practically choked, shifting awkwardly. "I think I'll play another time, perhaps…"

"If you're sure!" smiled Ron for the umpteenth time. He flew away to join the others, leaving his schoolmate to watch his retreating back. She felt torn in two. How could he be so happy over everything, so vague? Over the past week during her stay she thought something was happening between them--something more than friendship, at least. He had _told_ her how he felt about her. But now… now as she looked at him fooling around with the Snitch, she realised perhaps she may have made a mistake. Suddenly, however, her thoughts reverted back to something entirely different…

'_I've been in the Library all morning, mother_.' The sentence--the voice--replayed in her head over and over again. She knew that voice… she knew it so well, and yet she hadn't a clue who it belonged to. She then remembered hearing words in her head during breakfast: what were they? She couldn't remember.

All of a sudden the game of Quidditch came to an abrupt halt; Ron's face split into a smile. He signalled for the team to dismount their broomsticks; all eyes were fixed on the sky. Hermione looked up, too, and saw four new brooms flying towards the house at full speed.

"Harry!" cried Ginny, a grin spread across her face. She waved her arm frantically. Fred and George flew towards the ground and dismounted their brooms; Ron seemed to circle in the air wildly.

Molly Weasley, Fleur and Bill came running out into the garden as the new brooms landed and the rider's dismounted. Lupin had a smile etched across his face as he scanned the garden; Mad-Eye seemed to be having trouble with his Eye and Tonks was waving to the Weasleys as they ran up to her. It seemed only seconds after these newcomers arrived that they were blocked from sight by a sea of red hair.

Hermione stood up as the congregation split up, ready to greet the visitors herself. First she met Lupin and Tonks, who spoke to her for a short while, and then Mad-Eye greeted her. She ran up to Harry as soon as he was free.

"Harry!" she cried, hugging him before seeing him properly. As she pulled away she noticed he looked tired and ill. She could sense Ron standing behind her. "How are you?"

"I'm fine," said the boy-who-lived, forcing an unconvincing smile. "I've had a lot of time to think."

"How was the ride, mate?" questioned Ron. "What've you been doing?"

Hermione gave her redhead companion a frown. "Not now, Ron."

"No, don't worry," said Harry, shaking his head. "Nothing seems to worry me anymore: it's almost as if I've accepted what I have to do. I'll tell you in a while. What have _you_ been doing? I saw you playing Quidditch just now…"

"Harry, Ron, Hermione!" Molly Weasley's voice called to the trio from the house; the rest of the group had gone inside. "Come in for lunch!" She then promptly disappeared into the depths of the kitchen.

Ron grinned. "Great, I'm starving. I wonder what we're having?"

Lunch was the usual affair; Mrs Weasley seemed in greater spirits at managing to seat everyone around the table. The discussions mainly revolved around the Order of the Phoenix: Harry hardly said a word during the entire meal. After eating, however, he stole his friends away upstairs to talk alone with them.

"…so Uncle Vernon wants me to keep away from the house for good," he told them gravely, as he sat on Ron's bed not long into the conversation. Hermione pursed her lips.

"He can't possibly, Harry. That wouldn't be fair at all. Surely your aunt understands that you are allowed to return if you need somewhere to go? That's what Dumbledore said--"

"Yeah, but Dumbledore's dead," stated Ron simply. His friends ignored him.

"I'm not really worried about whether I'm allowed back or not," said Harry. "If I have to do the mission Dumbledore set me, I'm not likely to be returning home anyway. Ever."

"But you will eventually, won't you?" asked his redhead companion. "In the end: once you've destroyed the Horcruxes?"

The-boy-who-lived smiled sadly. "I don't know where I'll go from there… it seems such a long way away from now."

"Have you decided what you're going to do after you leave here?" questioned Hermione, her eyes large and over-bright.

"I'll still go to Godric's Hollow, no matter what happens. From there…" Harry shrugged. "I don't know. I have a vague idea."

"Go on," said Ron, interested. "We're coming with you, though, aren't we?"

"If you really must," came the reply. "But I'll go over everything with you tomorrow, all right? I want to enjoy what seems like the only afternoon I have…"

Hermione looked sympathetic. "Harry, have you any idea what the other Horcruxes are? Have you learnt anything about them since we last saw you?"

Harry shook his head. "I've been trying to read up on them, but most of it's been thinking-work. Don't forget I live with the Dursleys."

The bushy-haired girl sighed. "I wish we had more information to go on: I think we need more facts… if only you had asked Dumbledore…"

"He gave me all his information, anyway."

"Are you sure he told you everything? Maybe he didn't have time to tell you everything… maybe, just maybe, he had other information to talk to you about, after you found out the truth…"

"I'm pretty sure he told me everything he knew," said Harry.

Ron gave his friend a reassuring pat on the shoulder. "But it's still not the only afternoon, mate. Remember the wedding?"

"Yeah…"

"Harry," began his female companion, "would you prefer us to leave you alone for a while? To give you time to think, I mean… what?"

"Are you all right?" Ron was staring at her as if she had grown several heads. Harry frowned. "You did it again…"

"Did what?" asked Hermione, confused. "I asked Harry if we should leave him alone…"

"No, not that."

"What, then? What did I do, Ronald?"

Ron shrugged. "You looked…"

"I'm sure it was nothing, right?" said Harry slowly. And then, a few seconds later, added: "Actually, are you feeling all right, really? Maybe you do look a bit paler than a few seconds ago…"

"Pale?" Hermione shook her head in an almost exasperated way. "Oh, for goodness sake… there's nothing wrong with me!"

"Don't do that!" gasped Ron, horrified. "Don't glare at us like that!"

"I can glare at you how I like, Weas--" she stopped dead. No, it couldn't be… no, she had _not_ just been on the edge of saying 'weasel'. It was her imagination… it had to be. Then, quite out of the blue, a strong pain shot up through her head; it felt like knives had forced their way through her skull, slicing her forehead, blinding her with all their strength… her brain was physically being torn in two…

"Hermione?" asked Harry tentatively, watching as his best friend opened her mouth to scream. No sound issued from her lips.

"Ron… Harry… I--I…"

Ron shook his head. "What's wrong? Hermione!"

Hermione couldn't reply. She felt her head spin: she was losing the world around her again… she began to hear footsteps on a marble floor… she started to smell strong flowery scents… she could _see_ the vague outline of a large bedroom…

"Maybe we should call mum up?" She could just make out Ron's worried--almost afraid--voice. But however much she squinted to try and see her friends, the large bedroom became clearer. She could half-feel satin sheets covering her; she could see the outlines of two people bustling to and fro; she could smell heavy, dusty air as she breathed in… it was like waking up from a dream… there was no way of stopping the feeling, however much she clung onto it…

Someone was looking at her from the other end of the bedroom: they had been dusting the large fireplace. They said something, but their words were merged with Harry's shouting; she couldn't comprehend it.

The shouting was being drowned out--it was fading away. Birds were singing somewhere off in the distance; cool air was forcing itself through the open window. An open book was lying next to Hermione on the bed, but it was still too indistinguishable to see properly. One of the people in the room, however, was becoming clearer: it was a woman with blonde hair and clear, white skin. She came over and sat herself on the bed next to the muggle-born.

"Draco? Draco…"she turned back to look at the other woman in the room. "Cecilia! Draco's awake; come here, quickly!"

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Author's Note: Thank you for your feedback for the last chapter! I'm glad so many of you are enjoying this story so far. Hopefully, this chapter did not disappoint. I know Hermione or Ron may have been just a tad OOC: I apologise if they were, but writing those characters don't seem to come naturally to me… please tell me how I should improve them, if they need doing so.And now onto the reviews!

**DcoD: **Thank you for your review! I hope this chapter, as I said, was as interesting as the last.

**Silverbunnie: **The best way to start Draco off, I believe, is to write him as Draco and not a Fanfic!Draco. I know exactly what you mean. Thank you for reviewing!

**hpottersgirl: **Thank you for your review. I hope this update is soon enough for you.

**AsoftGoodbye: **I'm so pleased you liked it! Thank you!

**JazzDancin': **Don't worry about the constructive criticism! I'm actually very glad for any review. Thanks!


	3. Au Revoir à la Chair

**Goodbye To Flesh**

_By Elven Victory_

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Chapter Three – Au Revoir à la Chair

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As soon as Draco Malfoy awoke from his slumber he knew something was wrong. Well, not wrong--_unusual_. There was nothing sinister in the way he could feel weak sunlight filtering through his platinum hair, and there was nothing too odd about the fact that the sheet covering him felt no longer silk; what really felt strange was the feeling of something… something else… oddly, he felt a little more intelligent than usual…

Remembering why he was in bed in the first place, he rolled over and groaned heavily. He had _fainted_. No matter what the circumstances, a Malfoy does not faint. By doing that hideous act he had showed a sign of weakness.

But… on the other hand… his dream had been worse than fainting. Everything had seemed so real, so life-like. He could have sworn that he was actually _there_. Who were the people in it? He could remember talking to two people his own age, but his memory was blank. In deep thought the young man rolled over again, pulling the strange, new sheet up higher to prevent it from sliding down. His hair was attacking his face; he pushed it away with his hand groggily.

Draco sat bolt upright, still half asleep. No, it couldn't possibly be… it was all in his imagination… his hair was the same as what it always had been. But somehow, he wasn't convinced at all. Slowly, as if expecting to see some half-deformed monster waiting for him, he opened his eyes, only to come into direct contact with a messy lock of brown hair in his outstretched hand.

"What the--?" Realising that something had gone drastically wrong to the point of him having brown hair, he looked up. No--he did not recognise the awful, badly decorated room or the partly torn curtains. He had never seen the dusty bedside unit or the ugly broomstick leaning against the wall. If his mother saw the carpet, she'd faint right away--it looked as if it hadn't been swept for centauries. The young man looked at the sheet covering him and he was filled with horror; the blanket was covered in ginger _hair_. In disgust, he grabbed it roughly and threw it away from him onto the floor. This sudden movement caused more hair to fall in his line of view; he clutched it violently and hurled it back over his shoulder, cursing under his breath.

Melodious laughter was blowing in through the open window. It was unfamiliar and sickeningly sweet. As Draco attempted to ignore the awful sound, a mental image of a certain girl's portrait shot through his mind. Something began to dawn on him…

He pushed the thought aside roughly, trying to think of another reason for his strange surroundings. "Mother?" he called softly, hoping that she would answer him. But as soon as he had said it, panic began pulsing through him… that voice he had just used was not his own. "Mother? Someone?"

The laughter ceased; windchimes were chanting in the breeze somewhere outside. The birds seemed to have fallen completely silent.

Draco tried again. "Anyone?" he asked softly into the thickening silence.

Suddenly the door was pushed open; a boy of seventeen stood there, red hair gleaming in the glassy sun filtering through the window, his mouth turning upwards into a smile. Draco froze: a million feelings and emotions were running through his mind…

"You're awake!" Ron acknowledged, grinning. He strode over to the bed and sat next to Malfoy, hardly noticing how his 'companion' shot away from him in horror. "How are you now? Mum was really worried. She said the bacon did it…"

Draco was close to falling off the bed. He couldn't think properly. He had recognised the boy as soon as he entered the room: it was Ron Weasley, Potter's best friend. What was he doing in Malfoy Manor? But, then… the room they were in didn't look like anything out of the beautiful house he knew.

"What are you doing here?" Malfoy hissed viciously, earning a startled look from the newcomer. His voice, however, didn't have quite the effect it should have done due to its new tone. "Do you realise where you are, and who you're talking to? Are you lost? I would ask you to rake in a little money and buy yourself a map, but you probably couldn't afford one anyway."

Ron stared, a stung look creasing his face. "What's wrong? You must feel really bad…"

"I think I will become very ill if I stay here any longer," came the smarmy reply. "Where's my bedroom? This room isn't fit for the house-elves. I didn't think we had rooms like this in the house."

"But, this is where you always sleep!" exclaimed Ron, his eyes shocked and glossy. He looked bewildered. Then, as if he had struck upon the reason for his friend's strange behaviour, he asked: "Have you drunk any poison, or anything?"

"What's it to you?" asked Malfoy simply.

"Well, I just thought--"

"I wouldn't answer one of your questions if the world depended on it," came the swift reply.

"But you never act like this! I need to know what's wron--"

"My problems and concerns are my own, you silly little boy," said Draco nastily. He quickly raised a hand to rub his temple as a searing pain shot across his forehead. Ron's confused look changed to concern.

"You're not all right, are you?" he asked. "Why's your head hurting?"

"Does it matter?" replied Malfoy, silently seething, even though the pain in his head was slowly fading away. He looked at Weasley firmly. "What are you doing here?"

Ron's expression changed again. "Mum told me to come upstairs and check on you, so I did. Harry was really worried about you, but he's talking to Lupin and I didn't want to drag him up…"

Draco repeated the names mentally, his opinions slowly changing. _Harry_? _Lupin_? Wasn't Lupin the old Defence Against the Dark Arts teacher?

However, Ron was still speaking. "…so Tonks said she'd give him a new broomstick for his birthday, to help him with whatever he needs to do."

"What? Who's Honks?"

"_Tonks_," corrected Ron. "Did you hit your head?"

"I don't know what you're talking about," said Malfoy, his throat constricting rapidly. A new thought was dawning on him… he began to realise why there were strangers in the house: Dumbledore's old lot had come to raid Malfoy Manor!

"Do you remember what happened?" asked the redhead out of the blue. "After lunch?"

"No," replied Draco, curious as to know exactly what had happened. Was his mother safe? Had they taken her? "Tell me."

"Well," began Ron, "you fainted after lunch while Harry was talking to us. Mum came up and moved you into Ginny's bedroom to rest and recover. Don't you remember, Hermione?"

Malfoy inhaled sharply; although he wasn't able to properly comprehend what Weasel had just said, the name had stuck in his head. "What did you just call me?"

"I called you 'Hermione'. That's who you are, isn't it?"

The Death Eater stared at Weasley, horrified, but beginning to understand. Dumbledore's lot _hadn't_ raided Malfoy Manor.

"Aren't you, Hermione?" Ron was waiting for an answer, but his companion just stared at him, an empty shell.

Things started to click into place inside of Draco's head… the book… the portrait of Granger… him fainting at lunch… him waking up in an entirely new environment with the Weasleys for company… his sudden growth of chestnut hair… how could he have been so stupid?

"I _am_," answered Malfoy, sickened. He touched his hair again so as to make certain that it wasn't in his imagination… yes, he still had a mop of tangled curls. He surveyed his fingers and his half-bitten nails. He ran a hand over his face. Nothing he owned previously belonged to him now. He was entirely different.

He cleared his throat. Then, in what he hoped was an authentic voice: "Can you leave me alone?"

The redhead looked uncertain, and perhaps slightly afraid at his friend's attitude. "Okay…" he replied, rising from the bed and standing as if ready to leave. "Do you want me to bring Harry up?"

"No."

"Well, if you're sure, I guess…" He smiled, turned, and strode towards the door to exit the room. The door closed with a mournful 'click'.

Draco groaned inwardly. Obviously the book earlier had caused some massive side effect to the point of him trading minds with _Granger_, the Gryffindor know-it-all. He was stuck with untameable, thick hair and _her_ body! A mudblood's body! Tainted blood was running through his veins! The idea was unbearable. What would his mother say? What… what would his _father_ say, if he was out of Azkaban?

But… if _he _was in Granger's body, what had happened to _her_? Had she just dissolved into nothingness, never to show her ugly face again, or had she… no… that wasn't possible… he refused to think about it.

He had to get out of the house. He _had_ to get back to the library and reverse the spell. He had to find that book and destroy it with all the power he had. But… how?

And then a marvellous thought struck him… he could have gone home minutes after he had arrived! How could he have been so stupid?

His spirits lifted, Draco rose from the bed and got ready to Apparate to Malfoy Manor.

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Hermione Granger's eyes shot open. At once she realised the room she had seen earlier was not in her imagination; the bed, windows and books on the mahogany bookcase were all very real, even though they barely registered. But something else was rushing through the girl's mind: she also immediately noticed that something was _wrong_. Apart from the fact that her head was aching furiously, and her right forearm seemed to be burning, something was definitely not right.

Two women were standing over her. One she recognised at once as Draco Malfoy's mother, Narcissa. She wore a green satin cloak, fastened round the neck with a beautiful brooch. The other woman, who had straight, chestnut hair and green eyes, was unfamiliar.

"W-What…?" The muggle-born shut her mouth as soon as she had spoken: her voice was low and drawling. Narcissa placed a warm hand on the girl's forehead, looking concerned.

"How are you feeling?" she asked gently, her voice oddly sympathetic. Without waiting for an answer, she turned to her companion and they began talking in low murmurs. Hermione wondered why Lucius Malfoy's wife would ask how she was feeling.

"W-Why are you h-here?" the muggle-born asked, at once wishing she hadn't opened her mouth again: her voice was, again, a bored drawl. What was wrong with her? Where… where was she?

"Don't be ridiculous, Draco," said Narcissa. "I know you are feeling unwell but that is no excuse ask me such an insignificant question."

Hermione wondered if her hearing was still all right, or whether she was dreaming. What had she just been called?

"Excuse me?" she asked, in a voice that she hoped was polite. "I'm sorry…?" Narcissa placed another hand on the girl's forehead.

"Why are you apologising?"

"D-Did you just call me…" she couldn't bring herself to say it.

"I called you 'Draco'," replied Narcissa, growing impatience present in her voice. "That is who you are; that is your name."

Hermione could do nothing but stare in reply. She began to gape like a fish out of water.

"I--I… I don't understand," she croaked. "What's happening?"

The chestnut-haired woman cleared her throat quietly, looking at the ill patient.

"Narcissa, Draco is still recovering," she said gravely, her face expressionless. "Perhaps we can leave him alone for a while."

The blonde woman stepped back, looking at her son. "Yes, I suppose so…" she muttered. "Very well. Draco, we're leaving. If you need anything at all, the house-elves will assist you--"

"House elves?" asked Hermione, shocked, as the other woman left the room. "You have house-elves?"

Draco's mother ignored her. "I trust you will come downstairs before dinner-time; Severus contacted me earlier and he requires to speak to you."

"Snape!" exclaimed the girl, taking a sharp intake of breath. Her eyes were lit with some odd emotion. "_Professor_ Snape?"

"Yes, Severus Snape," acknowledged Narcissa. "Why the sudden shock? He told me he came by earlier--"

"Here?"

"Yes, and--"

"Why? Why did he come round? What did he want?"

"He spoke to you, did he not?"

"He did?"

"So I hear," said Narcissa, a frown creasing her pale brow. "What ever is the matter? You seemed fine earlier."

"Did I?" asked Hermione, shocked. The very mention of Snape's name had sent her mind reeling. Suddenly, she asked: "What time is it? What year? Season?"

"It is five o'clock," replied Narcissa. She walked towards the open doorway to exit the room. "Remember my words, won't you? I must leave: there are a few companions of mine I would like to address. Goodbye, Draco." And without another glance at the bed, she left the room, leaving a very confused Hermione to stare at the large, closing door.

A clock somewhere in the room sent off five chimes. The muggle-born examined her surroundings carefully, attempting to think of a reason for the strange room and its people.

The first thing she noticed was the elegant colours and decorations: the carpet and curtains were deep green and everything wooden in the room was carved mahogany. At the end of the room, and below a hefty mirror on the wall, stood a large fireplace; its mantelpiece was covered in decorative shells and--Hermione gasped--a skull. The walls were ornamented with paintings and small tapestries.

"There just _has_ to be a logical reason for this!" The muggle-born exclaimed after a minute or so, trying to ignore the new drawl that erupted out of her mouth. She scratched her head out of frustration. But instead of her hand finding its way into the normal mass of thick hair, her fingertips lightly touched something soft and smooth. "Wha--?"

She leapt out of bed (which wasn't a very wise thing to do, as the bed was much higher than usual), and walked across the room softly, the thick carpet warming her bare feet.

She passed the heavy mahogany chest-of-drawers, but when she reached the bookcase, she had to pause to look at the books. All of them were heavy and leather-bound with their titles written in fancy scrolls.

"_The Magic of Dark Arts_?" she asked aloud, horrified at what some of the books were called. Obviously she wasn't at The Burrow anymore…

The girl stole away from the bookcase and sighed, her eyes scanning the walls. The clock on the mantelpiece seemed to tick slightly louder; Hermione's gaze shot to it.

"Oh!" She gasped as she caught sight of her reflection in the mirror over the fireplace. Panic surged up her entire body; shivers were prickling up her spine. She opened her mouth to scream but no sound issued from her lips… she was… she was… _Malfoy_?

There was no mistaking the reflection in the mirror. There was no mistaking the soft, platinum hair or the grey eyes, or the pale skin. The muggle-born gave her arm a furious pinch in case she was dreaming. Unless it was some sort of illusion…

"Yes, that's it!" Hermione exclaimed suddenly, doing her best to comfort herself. "This room is an illusion, conjured by Mr Weasley to help the Order and its members. This must be a test of some sort…"

Walking forwards vigilantly, she held out her arm to touch the mirror--but, what was that? She pulled down the sleeve of her robe to get a better look at half a black marking on her right arm.

The Dark Mark, quite black and visible, glowered at her menacingly from her forearm.

Panic surged up her body again as she stared down at it; she felt her throat constricting… she could hardly breathe… her head began to spin… this had to be a nightmare…

As if out of shock, she yanked her arm away and it collided with the mirror on the wall; the golden frame shook, and the glass vibrated violently. For a moment it seemed to hover - then the entire thing came crashing off the fireplace and onto the floor, shattering into a million fragments.

Hermione stared down at the now-splintered face of Draco Malfoy, terror filling every inch of her body. This couldn't be an illusion: Mr Weasley wouldn't put her through this! What was happening? Why was the Dark Mark on her forearm? Why…

"_GRANGER_!" A voice rang around the hallway outside; the door behind her was forced open. The muggle-born spun round to face the intruder, only to come face-to-face with… herself?

They stood in silence, staring at one another. Hermione couldn't bring herself to speak; her throat had gone dry. The newcomer was glaring at her in half-disgust, half… fear?

Finally the girl brought herself to speak. "Who… who are you? W-Where am I?" The icy look she received unnerved her, but somehow she recognised it…

The intruder narrowed their eyes. They turned to the bedside cabinet behind and grabbed the wand off the desk…

Hermione took a ferocious step back as the wand was turned on her. Thoughts raced through her mind… her head began to ache again…

"Who have you seen?" asked the stranger in a violent hiss, raising the wand a little higher. His eyes trailed over the room, finally landing on the broken mirror. They blazed wildly. "What happened to the mirror?"

"I--I… It broke!"

"Mirrors don't simply break, mudblood!" He pointed his wand at it. "_Reparo_." The mirror's shattered glass and golden frame fixed together again; suddenly the entire thing was undamaged. The stranger turned back to Hermione, glaring.

The muggle-born suddenly recognised. "_Malfoy_?" she asked, her head spinning and her voice full of hatred. Was it possible? Was it… was it really _him_?

Draco sneered. "How ever did you guess?"

"_You_!" exclaimed the girl, her face full of wild shock. It was unbelievable… _Malfoy_ was in herbody!

"Me," came the cool reply. His voice was flat and emotionless, almost as if he had expected to see Granger there all along.

Hermione's eyes narrowed in distaste. "You…" she took a gulp of air. "What's happening? This can't be real!"

She didn't quite finish her sentence, however: in that second, Draco had spun round, grabbed his wand off the bedside unit, and was pointing the device directly at the girl's heart.

His now brown eyes were filled with some unknowable coldness. "If you tell _anyone_ about this little incident, mudblood, your life won't be worth living. _Petrificus Totalus_!"

Hermione hadn't quite finished speaking as the spell hit her; mouth agape, hands outstretched, she crashed to the floor, rigid and unmoving.

Draco looked at his old body for a fleeting second before racing out of the room, wand still in hand. He ran along the corridor and up a flight of stairs. He darted past familiar walls and paintings, the sound of running feet behind only vaguely registering. He turned a sharp corner and ran down another flight of steps onto a carpeted floor.

"Malfoy!" His own voice bellowed down the stairs he had just left. Draco, still hardly slowing, spun around and fired several curses at the new figure standing at the top of the staircase. He had no time to see whether he had succeeded, however; he continued to run as if the Death Eaters themselves were on his trail.

Only one thing ran through his mind: he _had_ to get to the library and reverse the spell before anyone saw him. Granger couldn't know…

As he raced along the new corridor he felt sure he had lost the muggle-born. He turned a corner and--

Finally he skidded to a halt in front of a tall, closed door adorned with decorative carvings. He took its silver-lined handle and pushed the entrance open warily.

The Library greeted him again, perhaps this time a little less welcomingly. The curtains had now been opened: they hung either side of the enormous windows, tied back with silver and green cords. Every book on the shelves was now illuminated fully by golden sunlight. The table in the centre of the room was shining: Draco's spirits lifted as his gaze trailed over the still-open book on its wood-and-leather surface.

He walked over to the chair and sat down again, remembering the day's earlier events. He looked down at the book: its pages shone yellow in the new light. The portrait of Granger had vanished, leaving a sheet of blank parchment.

"_You_!"

Draco shut the book with a snap. He looked round in his chair, his eyes narrowing when they saw the newcomer in the room: his body, or rather, Granger, was staring at him intently. She was standing a few strides away from him.

Malfoy sneered. "I thought I got rid of you. Get out."

Hermione looked at him madly, almost fearfully, but determined nonetheless. Perhaps, if this _was_ a test, she had to face up to the Slytherin and tell him what she thought of him. Then, it would all be over.

"I hate you," she said simply, her voice flat and emotionless. When her enemy said nothing in reply, she continued. "You are the reason Dumbledore's dead and I absolutely detest you for it. How… how could you?"

"I told you to get out," repeated Draco, his voice now dangerously smooth. "Mudbloods are not welcome in Malfoy Manor."

"I don't care whether they are or not! You should be sent to Azkaban, you know, just like your father--"

Suddenly Malfoy stood up; his eyes were expressionless and cold, but his anger seemed to be radiating off him in waves. "_Don't_."

Hermione stared at him; her face had lost its mad, wild rage and had been replaced by a look of cold hatred. What was happening? She had voiced her opinions, and yet nothing was carrying her away back to The Burrow.

"Is this a dream?" she thought aloud, as the Death Eater took up his seat in front of the table again. She took a step towards him. "Your spell--it didn't work. I must be dreaming…"

"Do you think something even this horrific would happen in a nightmare?" snapped Draco, his eyes fixed on the table. "Wake up, you stupid girl! This is reality. You're contaminating my perfectly clean, pureblooded body with your filth. Do you think I'm exactly pleased about it, Granger? This is _not_ a dream."

"No…"

"And here I am, as you! If my father was here…" He shook his head in disgust.

"But… how?" asked Hermione wildly, shock showing on Malfoy's face for perhaps the first time. She began pacing on the carpet. "This isn't normal! There has to be a logical reason for this…"

"There is only one reason for this and that is perfectly logical," replied Malfoy coldly.

"But your spell didn't work!"

"How should I know why it didn't work, mudblood?" sneered Draco. The Gyffindor, however, seemed to have taken to pacing the floor again. She was muttering under her breath.

The Death Eater looked down at the closed book on the table. There it was, staring up at him, the cause of all his problems. '_Au Revoir à la Chair_'shone brightly in the golden sunlight.

Suddenly the hardback was snatched up from the table; Malfoy spun round in his chair, angry. "Do you mind?" he said icily, watching as Hermione looked down at the book's leather-bound cover with a frown. "It's Dark Magic, Granger; it might kill you."

"Do you know what the title _says_?" the muggle-born asked, her eyes wide and over-bright. Draco stared at her. "It's French. It says '_Goodbye To Flesh_'."

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**Author's Note**: Sorry for the long wait, everyone! I was never really happy with this chapter, and it's been rewritten by me countless times. In fact, I don't think I'm happy with it even now. Thank you for all your feedback! And, now onto the reviews:

**DarkPegasiKnight**: Thank you for reviewing! Yes, the other language was French: I'm not very good at French, but I know enough.

**Silverbunnie**: I understand what you mean about making Ron blunt: perhaps I shouldn't have made him appear as such a complete idiot! Thank you for your review. I'm glad you're enjoying the story.

**Xitai**: Thank you! I appreciate that.

**Cassandra Raven**: I've only just noticed how many times that term was used; thank you for pointing that out to me! I'll be sure to find another form of address for him. Thank you for reviewing!

**X DraGoNeTTe**: Thank you!

**Downinnewyork: **Thanks for your feedback! I hope you enjoyed this chapter.

**DcoD**: I'm glad you liked it! Thank you for your review.


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